


i see you staring me down

by Mongo00



Series: holding on (to life) [18]
Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Embarrassment, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, POV First Person, POV Josh Dun, med check in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 04:09:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13895937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mongo00/pseuds/Mongo00
Summary: Nothing can explain that horrible feeling of silent judgement. The embarrassment and shame is now engraved in my brain and all I want to do is cry._____(Basically a trip to the clinic for a monthly check, but doc checks cuts)





	i see you staring me down

My mom picks me up from home and we drive to the familiar office building. 

I get out of the car, walk upstairs, and enter the clinic through the ‘well child’ door. 

Funny thing is: I’m probably more sick than the other kids, just not physically. 

We check in and sit down on the brightly colored chairs while Trolls is playing on the TV. 

I’m sitting next to an eight year old girl that’s laughing and smiling. I then look at myself and miss the simpler days.

I slump down on the chair, closing my eyes and unconsciously shake my legs as I wait for my name to get called.

I come here every month and I hate it. I hate that everyone tries to treat me as a normal person, but they all still show the mental health stigma. 

When my name finally gets called by a nurse wearing pink minnie mouse scrubs, I internally roll my eyes and follow her to the room.

To her request, I take off my sweatshirt and get my blood pressure taken. I take off my shoes and follow her to get weighed and measured. 

We go back into the room and I sit on the neon plastic chair next to my mom, staring at the pastel colored walls. 

The nurse rambles about pharmacy and phone numbers and eventually leaves. 

I stare at the wall and put my sweatshirt back on, waiting for my doctor to come in. 

When she does, it’s her typical clashing outfit and hyper personality. 

“Hi Tyler, nice to see you again. Can you tell me your current prescription and dosage?”

“40mg of Prozac.” I respond robotically. Who doesn’t know their own prescription?

“Okay good. Taking it once a day, everyday?”

“Mhm.”

“How are you doing?”

She’s asking about the meds, not how I’m truly feeling. She asks me this question every month, expecting a different answer, but I give her the same one every time.

“Okay.”

“Can you expand?”

“I feel more stable.”

“Expand further Tyler.” She retorts, not happy about my plain responses (not that I can give her much more).

“The anxiety and depression are having less highs and lows, but I’m still having panic attacks and depressed episodes.”

“How often?”

“Once a week for panic attacks and twice a week for episodes.”

“That’s a lot better than before!” She says too cheerfully. “The panic attacks. Are those the major ones only?”

“Yeah. Like the can’t breathe, move, feel, think ones.”

“Okay. Mom anything to add?”

My mom starts rambling about something and I just continue looking at the floor. My legs shake to pass time and my mom ends up leaving the room to give the doctor and I ‘alone time.’

I hate being alone with her. She’s insensitive and she tries so hard to be peppy. 

She has too much energy to be talking to a depressed person.

“Okay Tyler. Your therapist told me that you began cutting two months ago, but I didn’t know until a couple weeks ago. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“When was the last time you cut?”

“A week ago.” 

“Do you have any coping strategies to avoid cutting?”

“I guess.”

“Tyler.” She says sternly, expecting me to elaborate.

“I call my friends…” I mumble, waiting for this interrogation to finish.

“That’s it?”

“Baths, my diffuser, drawing on myself, napping.”

“See! That’s what I wanted, good job.” She exclaims too proudly, making me sink further into my chair.

“Alright.” She says, grabbing the handheld light. “Stand up please.”

I reluctantly get out of my chair and face her. By now, the eyes, ears, and mouth check is second nature to me. 

After she stethoscopes my heart and breathing, I head back to sit down out of routine, but she stops me.

“Can you take off your sweatshirt?” She asks me while putting on a pair of gloves.

I look at her confused, but I pull off my hoodie anyways.

Without warning, she grabs my arm and flips it over. I have bracelets and a watch covering the cuts on my right arm. 

She gets the message and immediately begins to rip off my watch and bracelets.

I stand there in shock. There’s no warning, no asking, no consent. 

She pulls up my other arm, but realizes that it’s clean and directs her attention back to my right arm.

Looking closer, she asks: “Only two cuts? They look pretty old.”

“I-I um.” I try to respond, still in shock. “I started cutting on my hips.”

She looks at me, waiting for me to show her, so I slowly pull down my pants to where the cuts are visible. 

This is the first time I’m ever showing my cuts to someone and it feels horrible. It feels like an invasion of privacy and I feel like I’m going to faint. 

She pulls down the other side of my pants to expose three more cuts, the newer ones. She runs her gloved fingers over them, inspecting them.

I want to scream and run out of the room. I’ve never felt more exposed and powerless. 

She looks up at me and I’m holding back tears, but she doesn’t care. 

“You cut pretty deep.” She states, still looking at the lines. “How?”

“I um. I use a pencil.” I manage to spit out, still in shock and on the verge of a panic attack.

“Mmm.”

She continues to examine the lines as I close my eyes, trying to disappear.

She finally lets me sit back down. I throw on my sweatshirt and bracelets within a second. I try my hardest to sink down into the chair, wallowing in embarrassment and shame.

I don’t pay attention to the rest of the appointment, only registering that my Prozac dosage is getting increased again to 60mg. 

I walk out of the office in silence and stay silent until I get home.

I jump into a scalding hot shower and try to scrub all of the uncomfortableness off of my skin while crying.

Going to bed tear streaked, all I can think about is how shameful I feel. 

Nothing can explain that horrible feeling of silent judgement. The embarrassment and shame is now engraved in my brain and all I want to do is cry.


End file.
